Haru X Kou (Story Idea's voting polls)
by VintageTypewriter2346
Summary: For whomever wishes for another HaruXKou fic similar to "Pug's love and the Deep end". Please read all of the chapter and vote within the review to which idea is your favorite and would it to be continued. This will be closed by the end of March or the beginning of April. Don't feel shy- be free to voice your opinion.
1. Idea 1: Biology with a kiss of Mackerel

_~Biology with a Kiss of Mackerel~_

 _Basic Biology 101_ _—_ read the title of the textbook as her nose buries deeper into the fine-print and eyes flicker throughout the words, to the pictures of the muscular diagrams.

It's a Friday night, and as usual her plans involve: biology books, Chinese take-out, nuke-warm coffee, and a laptop on word documents, silence along with a comfortable blanket. It's her ideal and frequent Friday night—when she isn't working.

Solemnly her eyes flicker towards the end table— _7:30 PM—_ the clock glares into her orbs. "Only 7:30, huh?" the student sighs, hand reaching for the pale-pink mug sitting next to the cube-shaped clock. "I guess everyone's out," she concludes since the apartment is silent—it's _never_ this quiet when everyone's home.

Her eyes narrow for the _chilling_ bitter taste of the aged coffee—it wasn't remotely to her cheap-liking which means: it's time to brew a new pot.

Swiftly she climbs off the couch, shuffles towards the tiny kitchen with the blanket tightly wrapped around her frame.

The coffee grinds trickle into the filter as she hums in delight—a silent _click_ comes from the pot before she flicks the brew-button and the machine begins to growl.

A content smile appears on her lips as she looks down to the brown liquid filling the empty pot— _"Perfect,"_ her thoughts sing.

Suddenly her peaceful harmony ends once the front-door opens and closes. "Gou-chan! Gou-chan!"—the red-head growls for her room-mates voices as they sync together—both women must've gotten off _early._

"What're you two doing home?" she blankly asks without budging from her spot.

The book-worms eyes settle on the sandy-blondes motion as she tosses her jacket onto the hook, hair pulled back into a high-bun while the creamy caprice cling to her form. "Mrs. Fukuo let us go early!" she squeals.

"I see that," Gou says—the two women walk into the living room and sigh for the sight of the red-heads beloved biology books.

"Why don't you go out?"—Kou rolls her eyes—they _always_ try to get her to go out on the "town". What's the use? It wouldn't help her with her future and she's worked _way too_ damn hard to get to her ranking in her class. A night out on the town could mean: a loss of hard-work.

"Yeah, Chi-chan is totally right!" a bright cheering notion echoes the apartment.

Her room-mates—Kencho Hana and Chigusa Hanamura.

Kou and Chigusa have been friends since high-school, but despite her overly cheerful attitude that occurs more often, you'd never expect such a woman to be studying law. Indeed, the average-height, long sandy-blonde locked beauty wants to be a lawyer—not any kind of lawyer but a Supreme Court attorney.

Then there's Hana—they only met in their first-year of University, thanks to the random selection of room-mates in the dorms around campus. Kou always thought Hana was too much work since she's constantly out partying and with friends—it's just a lifestyle Kou couldn't handle. Aside from Hana's lilac hair, maroon eyes, tall, dark complexion and party loving attitude—she's studying to become an engineer and is known for her high passing grades.

"I honestly don't understand what's so great about partying," Kou grumps—tugging the blanket over her head like a hood she narrows her eyes at her room-mates. "You get drunk (ending with a nasty hangover), have sex with random strangers (which can lead to sexually transmitted diseases or pregnancy), wear skimpy clothing and get all sweat on the dancefloor (leading to illness or male targeting), and in all it can harm your grades."

Chigusa sigh in defeat—knowing if she said a word it wouldn't change Kou's mind— _nothing_ ever did. For woman who wants to become the next big Supreme attorney, she couldn't change the red-heads opinion or reasoning—she's tried for many years.

"Not all parties are like that," Hana steps forward with a flick of the wrist. "Actually, to go out on the town, you don't need to party per-say."

"I know with _you_ two, it's only going to be that," Kou elegantly flicks the coffee-machine off and pours a fresh cup. "And I don't necessarily wish to be dragged into _that_ "night-life" fun. Besides, I'm content with my biology books, coffee, Chinese and homework assignments."

Both room-mates sigh exhaustingly—there's _no way_ to change her mind. She's been like this ever since— _he_ happened— Seijuro Mikoshiba.

Kou and Seijuro dated for many years, up until she was about to graduate high-school. Everyone thought they would last longer than that, but it turned out Seijuro began to have feelings for a girl in his English class. Kou, being the type to put her feelings on the back-burning, she set him _free_.

Since that day, Kou has been in this _funk._

Chi tenses for a second and looks towards her bag—a tiny edge of paper sticks from the pocket, an idea comes to mind. "Kou, I know the _perfect place_ for us to go tonight."

"I'm not going to a male strip club again," Kou rebuts blowing the steam from her coffee, "Magic Mike's enough for me."

Chi giggles with a blush—she can still recall the handsome men from the strip-club, especially the main stripper. "No, it's more—refine," Chi is cautious with her words.

"Why should I go?" the red-head grunts.

"If you do, we will stop hounding you to go out," Hana suddenly chirps—instantly the red-headed bookworm agrees.

 _._

 _._

 _Mackerel ~ Biology_

 _._

 _._

A cold sweat trickles down her spine—Kou didn't understand how two women like Chigusa and Hana managed to get her _here._ She's starting to re-think their agreement to live with them, especially if they could manipulate _her_ to come to such an establishment.

When Hana made their _little_ bet, she never expected _this_. The sad thing is… Hana and Chigusa choose this place because _they_ had coupons.

"I'm disturbed," the red-head looks at the two woman in awe over the bright lights and well-groomed flower garden outside the house like building—they haven't even went inside yet, and they're acting like a bunch of idiots.

Kou takes a deep breath—she needs to remain calm, but the sparkle in their eyes was picking at her calm mind-frame, because they look like the dazed girls clumsily leaving the business.

"Explain: how you got those coupons," Kou whines as a group of women with hearts in their eyes and squeals in their throats walk passed her.

She waits for her room-mates to explain but they're far off in _dream-land_ —the ignorance drove a tick-mark onto the science-lovers forehead.

"How'd you get coupons for a _damn_ Host Club?!" Kou finally snaps—both Hana and Chigusa are knocked from their trance, and look over to the furious red-head.

"Oh," Chi sings with innocence while her eyes stick to the fancy illuminated sign reading: _"Secret Siren,"_ —the name was rather… suited for a Host Club since the men inside were only out to empty women's pockets just sirens dragging innocent sailors to their death.

"I got mine from a guy in my English course…" Chigusa trails with her mind thinking about the male-student who gave her the coupon. "I think his name started with a W… er—Wakato? No—"

"Does it matter?!" Kou snaps—she just wants to get this over with so she can go home to her precious books and aged-coffee, waiting for Chi to think about the mysterious Host–Club-loving-male would only make her sit in _these_ clothes longer than she wants.

"No, not really," Chi grins, "but he was super-hot."

Kou groans—she couldn't care less for boys—she needed to be focus on her studies. Not to mention, the last time she took interest in a boy her heart was broken into tiny pieces.

"Time to go in," Hana squeals, rolling up her sleeves she pushes Kou into the Host Club.

 _._

 _._

Ice covers the black door—mocking him slightly for its difficult antics. His large hand rests on the frozen silver handle—he jiggles the knob, but nothing—a swift kick: still nothing.

The silent host felt like giving up and taking a nap or jumping into the fish-tank in the front of the club—it would piss his manager off but it would be worth it (he thinks).

"I think you've been ordered—, "one of his co-workers try.

He looks over with a raise brow—instantly making the male silent as he look towards the door from behind the illuminated bar covered with fake coral-reefs and blue water effect lights to fit the theme. Once the bartender notices the host's issue with the freezer door he sighs in amusement.

"I got it", the tender waves.

The host steps back slightly as the other male stalks closer with a pot of hot-water. "It's frozen again?" another voice enters the room—the host looks over to see his co-worker/best-friend.

"Yeah, I keep telling the manager that she needs to get someone in here to fix the thermostat but she says: we don't have the fund for a repair man," the bartender replies as he opens the door—he looks over to the quiet host and waves inside. "Make sure your quick in there, you wouldn't want to keep your _guest_ waiting."

 _._

 _._

She wearily pouts as her eyes linger around the club—women fondling over cliché prince-charming, one's that can woo a pretty penny out of a purse/wallet.

After entering the "Host Club", the hostess directed Hana and Chigusa to single tables—apparently their coupons were for _private_ sessions with a host of their choosing.

Thankfully (not so much) Hana had an extra-coupon to use on Kou, but the red-head was lost to who to choose. At first she thought the host: Razor Jaw would be a good pick, but then the hostess told her that particular host wasn't available—leaving Kou one option: _complete_ trump-card.

Now she waits for the hostess pick—The Voiceless Prince, she called him—or so Kou thought.

" _Voiceless, huh?"_ the nerd thought with her eyes on Hana's long awaited choose— _King Zeus_ —that's what she thinks Hana called him. It seems this host wasn't exactly… the ruler of the sea, since _"Poseidon"_ was replaced by Zeus.

Either way it doesn't matter—she couldn't care less for the hosts name, he wasn't her pick—but from the distanc3e Kou can make-out his broad-back, covered in a _fine_ suit of violet. By the sway of his navy-hair Hana blushes madly—Kou groans for the sight. When did her room-mate become… so… easy?

" _King Zeus"_ sits down with a brisk smile while cleaning his glasses; by the cheesy giggle that can barely be heard, Kou figured the host had said a cheesy pick-up line. Probably something on the lines of: _"You are the most breath-taking spark of all"_ —puny for his host-name, but complete garbage.

A loud gasp comes from behind Kou—she looks over to see Chigusa conversing with her host: _"Sirens Enchanting Touch."_

When reading the name the red-head though he'd be some cutesy guy who loved sweets, but no.

" _Siren's Enchanting Touch"_ is a rather tall, muscular, gentle-face made with a soft-tone. Just by his aura Kou could tell he's more of a motherly man.

"If that's: The Enchanting Siren's Touch… I wonder what "Voiceless Prince" is like…" she sighs blankly; Kou wouldn't give a shit if he was a walking dolphin—as long as the _"meeting"_ is quick and painless.

Her gaze snaps once a presence presses against her back—the enchanting scent of the host lingering in her nose: salty, mysterious and… completely erotic. "You must be my _long lost_ Ariel," he whispers into her ear.

" _ **My long lost love"**_ —the husky voice whispers in her ear, sending a crawling chill down her spin but mostly a dull glimmer in her eyes for that… voice.

The squeak of the seat echoes her inner-demon away—she doesn't bother to give him a wavering glancing because her mind is set… on school.

The barriers built by her broken-heart were going to hold back _all_ those devilish men… who were nothing but hungry wolves who wanted nothing but—her pure, tattered heart and innocent mind-frame.

She doesn't want to hurt again—anymore.

"So, a girl with no intention to be flattered," the host tenses for the voice—both seated parties look over to see a somewhat short male—blonde—magenta eyes and a baby-face. "Seems like your type of woman."

" _Type of woman..."_ the red-head bits her lip. **"You're something…. Special"** —the voice lingers in her head.

" _Something special, huh?"_ she sadly thinks whilst the blonde host continues to speak—completely ignored by the red-head.

The Prince looks over his guest completely captured by her ghostly look—usually his guest would be fondling over him and whispering flirtatious things in his ear, even ordering a cheap drink—but this one is different.

"Nagi-chan~" a cheerful voice squeals—instantly the blonde host turns to his guest and scurries off with a large smile.

Kou's silent as she closes her eyes and leans against the table—she really wants to go home.

"Listen," she says as her eyes drift from the wooden table-top and up the ruffled dress-shirt of the host—buttons perk to the sides with the fabric as she see more of his form. Once her crimson eyes land on hills of brown-sugar skin her cheeks become flushed. "I-I—, "her voice cracks as a spark lights in her eyes for the lose necktie dangling from his long neck. When his strong-jaw, lush lips and long raven hair that travels down his endless night. She shakes away her blush and looks him in the eye only to tense in place— _blue_ —two amazing eyes of blue were staring at her like tidal-pools. "I'm not here to become one of your customers—trust me I'm not interested in hearing your pathetic bull-shit you use to get my money. I was dragged her by my room-mates to have "fun"—to be honest I'd rather be at home—"

His eyes light-up with amusement for her antic's—the vixen narrows her eyes on the host, his lips curl-upward.

"… _She's interesting,"_ the host thoughts ring while a charming laughter bubbles from his throat—this is the first time he's actually _truly_ laughed with a guest—the other's like the Enchanting Touch knew the difference.

Kou narrows her eyes but tenses when she feels people staring at the laughing Prince—she looks over to Hana and her host to see them both gawking towards her table; turning around she notices the same reaction to Chigusa and her host—everyone seems shocked.

As the hosts laughter fades be notices the silence of the club—he wipes the tears in his eyes as he looks at the woman across the table, but once he notices the surprised look on the Enchanting Touches face he becomes stern and erases his expression.

"What would you like to drink?" he blankly asks—Kou tenses for the similar tone she holds with others.

"What's your favorite drink, Voiceless Prince?" the nerd questions whilst moving her glasses up the bridge of her nose. "I'm guessing for a Prince you would drink something rather…. _expensive_ or strong"—the host tenses for her thoughts.

"Strong," the host simply answers.

Kou sighs heavily as she thinks her answer over—the red-head can handle her alcohol like a pro, but too much would make her blab like a dog; could she take the risk with him?

Her eyes meet with the strange host—he's an utter stranger to her—there wasn't any chance they would see each other if she never came back to the club.

"The strongest bottle of alcohol it'll be then, Voiceless Prince."

 _._

 _._

 _Hey everyone, this is the first idea!_

 _Review "Biology with a kiss of Mackerel" if this is your favorite._


	2. Idea 2: Bleach Stains and Guitar Strings

_Bleach Stains & Guitar Strings _

Standing on the large bay stones his eyes are dull—a clear first.

The rough and chilling waves of the sea pinch his bare toes like needles. A strong exhilarating breeze blows his raven locks unlovingly. Everything doesn't feel right— _he_ doesn't feel like his one with the water anymore.

Faded—their passionate relationship is _gone_.

Water-sama had always made _him_ content. Not anymore—he feels nothing—he _is_ numb.

Why? Looking at the grey-waves in the distance he feeling nothing—just blank like a white page.

His bright eyes stare up to the sky: grey and cloud covered just like his heart.

 _Buzz! Buzz!_

He digs into his pocket with irritation—the blue flip-phone _clicks_ as he places it at his ear to hear the uncanny whistle and coach's voice, the sound of water splashing and excited males on the other line.

"Yeah?" he sighs.

"Haru-chan!"—the male groans for the voice. Nagisa, the child-like and overly excited tone. They've been friends for years, but sometimes (especially at times like this) he was too much to handle. "You're late!"—he's aware—"You're never late for practice!"—he knows.

Ever since the blue-eyes male graduate out of high-school and started swimming on a university level, he felt like his relationship with the water has been changing. Now, it feel as though there is no way to return back to his old-self. The once love-struck water-lover was now numb by the liquid that once gave him joy.

After a long silence, the bright voice of Nagisa chirps once again. "Is—is everything… okay?" his voice seem dreadful—there's never anything wrong with the silent male; well, he never shows his emotions to others.

"You haven't been your usual self lately," the phone sings—the blue-eyed male tenses for the blondes words. How did he allow his poker-face to break?

' _Fuck, just play it off,'_ he decides before sighing. "I'm fine," he blankly says. "I'll be at practice in s bit"—before the hyper voice could reply he hangs up and shoves the device back into his jeans.

Turning away from the ocean his eyes fill with the dark and gloomy woods. No one's on the beach—he's alone, just like he wanted from the start. Walking towards the parking lot in the distances he feels his heart grow dark like the forest—he feel alone like nobody would understand what he's going through.

 _._

 _._

 _Stains ~ Strings_

 _._

 _._

Chlorine—dust and axe; it's the smell a specific nose is used to due to her brother. For some reason, he always smelt of dust and axe—probably because of the running he'd love to do after his practices—the axe was a failed attempt to have an army of women chasing him. Then again, he could've been to hide the fact he hadn't done laundry in over a week.

Stumbling slightly she leans against the wall she pants—when her brother had told her there was an apartment open in his building she did not expect the elevator to be out-of-order—her brother to be an asshole—having to climb up several flights of stairs with boxes—her best-friend to bail on her last minute and there to be nobody around.

' _Where is a hot and cliché neighbor when I need him?'_ —she mentally growls.

Flopping the box into her apartment she glares over to the door next to hers'. She wants someone—anyone—even if it's some perverted old man, to come out and help her dammit! Even if they didn't notice her at first she wouldn't mind—heck, she could batt her lashes and show off her curves to get them to help her. Any help is better than doing the fucking trip a hundred times!

After glaring at the door for a few minutes she finally breaks and sighs heavily—having a stare-down with a door isn't going to do shit at this point. Shaking her head she whimpers before heading down the flight of stairs again.

Pushing through the revolving door she feels the stress of moving leave her body—the sun is high in the sky, grey-clouds, the city of Tokyo is bustling while the smell of the air tickles her nose. It's different from the country-side little town she's used to—there were was barely anyone there that was around her age. Then again, no one really related to her—they were boring and straight-arrows—she is more of a free-spirit.

Leaning down into her tiny-car she looks at the many boxes in her back-seat—she never thought she had _this_ much stuff until now. At her mothers' house she thought there was barely anything—heck, she thought she'd have to steal some milk-crates to sit on, but she was completely wrong it seems.

"Alright! Let's do this!" she says with determination—grasping the box she feels the heaviness of her life within her hands but it doesn't waver her steps back into the building.

"Fuck…" she mumbles as she looks up the stairs. "I'm going to kill my _damn_ brother."

 _._

 _._

 _Stains ~ Strings_

 _._

 _._

Opening the door to his apartment he looks over the tiny-space: the small kitchen with the basic needs, a cramped bathroom with the bare necessity, a decent sized bedroom and the small living room.

The building is livingly with his neighbor to the ride blaring their music, upstairs seems to be having sex and the drunk university girls are flooding the halls. He looks over to the door within his apartment—the one that leads to the _'empty'_ apartment; it's the only apartment with a bath-tub and larger areas.

Before his little _funk_ he would have carded the door and soaked in the tub—but, not tonight.

Tossing his backpack into his room he opens the window to his apartment inhaled the dense air of the city—in all honesty, he missed his hometown and his grandparent's house. Looking out to the city lights he sighs and looks down the fire escape before heading to his bathroom.

.

.

She huffs as she searches for her apartment keys—red electric guitar on hanging on her back and hands digging through her jean-pockets, the plaid throw-over around her waist and bra—nothing, her keys weren't there.

Exhaling deeply she lays her head against the door—drowning out the loudness of the other resilience she hears a faint fluttering and crash—a window.

"No way…" she whispers; pressing her ear against the wood she listens closely— _rattle, click, bang and crash._ A smirk comes to her lips before heading towards the stairs with an extra hop in her step and excitement within her eyes. "I'm always up to a little fire-escape danger," she giggles.

Jumping down steps, dodging one or two people—even bumping into one, she sighs with joy when she reaches the bottom.

Adventure—it's her personal drug—it makes her life exciting and thrilling. If she could go to school to become someone who does nothing but thrill-filled and dangerous things, she wouldn't mind doing the work and taking test. But—according to the educational system and everyone in society—adventure is nothing but an immature action which teens preform to get a quick high with breaking any _serious_ laws.

She loves it—the way her heart races, logic becomes forgotten, the shaking within her veins and the _edge_ —oh how she loved the fucking edge.

Rushing through the parking-lot she looks up the building—through the yellowed-windows she could see many different scene: students studying, some talking on the phone, overly-kinky sex, a group smoking a cigarette—scratch that, a joint—and out-of-control students drinking on a Tuesday. _'Typical,'_ is all she thought.

Once reaching the back of the building she grins towards the rusty, old and dangerous fire-escape—the land-lord should really invest in getting a new one.

Her eyes scan the stairs—some missing, others' completely rusted, a few dangling from their last screw—it was a masterpiece in her eyes, utterly beautiful.

She takes a long-step up the stairs (skipping a few here and there)—her callous covered hands tightens on the rust railing as she continues up towards her floor.

Looking up to the window she sighs in relief for the fact she wouldn't have to wake-up the landlord or sleep out in the hallway—it was just her luck, especially since she totally forgot she opened a window in general.

Staring up at her next challenge of the venture she huffs—the landlord _really_ needed to replace the fire-escape, especially since there's a huge gap between the stair-case.

' _You can do it,'_ she encourages herself with her orbs on the single rusty pole dangling from the stairs. _'It's just—it's just an old rust and dangerous uneven bar! Yeah! That's all—uneven bars, exactly like gymnastics! I've done this hundreds of times,'_ —the encouragement wasn't working.

Feeling her heart race and head spin she steps back causing her sneakers to squeak on the metal—she wasn't going to pussy out—hell no, she's a dare-devil!

Looking down between the gaps she notes the pile of trash-bags—if she were to fall she'd at least have a _'safe'_ but disgusting landing. Yeah—like that made her feel any better about the jump.

Slapping her cheeks pink she glares at the bar before leaping through the air—her hands grasp the rusty and cold metal-bar as she swings back-and-forth. Feeling the guitar weighing heavily on her back she grunts and looks over to the stair's in the distance—she didn't think this far… way to go.

"Swings," her voice squeaks while she kicks her legs and slowly begins to move—such movements makes her feel like a Laura Crawford (Tomb Raider).

Gaining momentum her hands begin to burn due to the pieces of rust. She gives one last full-force swing and releases the bar sending her flying through the air.

The stairs rattle as she lands with a slightly tumble and a deep sigh of relief; looking over she shoulder she smirks for the bar before scurrying up the rest of the steps.

.

.

Wrapping a towel around his waist he ruffles his hair with another towel; draping the towel around his shoulders he goes to wipe the mirror clear— _creak!—_ he stops and holds his breath.

 _Click, click, click—_ narrowing his eyes looks towards the bathroom door.

The only people who took the fire-escape to his apartment were his friends/team-mates—Nagisa especially. He would constantly climb from the fire-escape to raid his fridge and sometimes ask about assignment from their Marine Habitats class—for some reason the blonde sucked at that individual class.

Tonight he wasn't in the mood to deal with the blonde—he wants to be alone—no one bothering him—no one assuming shit—just him, his couch and television; that's it!

Rushing towards the window his eyes become stormy-waters and the silent-male clenches his fist tightly. He rounds the corner in record-timing and snaps his heads towards the window. "Nagi—huh?" he stops.

Two big bright crimson eyes, pale skin like the finished clouds kissed with a few freckles, luscious lips and longs fire-red hair swirls through the breeze—he stiffens for the hit in his chest—the numbness seemed to be replaced by a heated and tingling sensation.

The nameless woman climbs through his window with a blush on her cheeks—his skin pricks with goosebumps as her eyes strip him of his towel—she is _intense._ "So, what are you doing in my apartment?"—what?

Narrowing his eyes her trance snaps from his mind— _he's_ pissed. "This is _my_ apartment," he hisses through his teeth.

"What?" she whispers under her breath—looking around the room she sighs heavily and pouts. "Great going Kou…" she mutters to herself.

Her eyes look over his physique—large muscles, tanned skin, long raven hair like fine-silk, raging and breath-taking blue eyes—he's definitely supermodel quality.

"Explain," the man blankly says but his eyes tell a different story.

"Jeez, you're such an asshole," she bits; her eyes land on the door within the room—the brass-handle and old scratches—it's definitely the door that connects to her apartment. "Listening, I need to get through _that_ door," she points.

' _The fucking nerve of this damn woman!'_ —the males thoughts scream in fury; there was no-way-in-hell he was going to help her. "No," he simply answers.

Kou gawks for the refusal and folds her arms over her chest. "I'll do it myself then, neighbor."

' _Neighbor?'_ —he freezes for the news; for the longest time the apartment next-door had been empty. When did someone move in? Had he not notices someone living next to him? Is he that dense?—no.

"No one lives there," he reassures her.

Rolling her eyes she moves towards the door, "I do numb-skull. I just moved in."

He sighs before grabbing a card from his counter and walking to her sigh—for some reason he believed this woman. "Haruka Nanase," he simply says; with a swift movement of his wrist he opens the door to the apartment.

Her eyes glows for the sight of her many boxes—clapping her hands she looks over to Haru with a smile, one that causes his chest to tighten. "Thank you, Haru!"—her voice is eager.

He's at a loss for words as he stares at the red-head. "The names: Kou—Kou Matusoka."

.

.

.

Image of the chapter: a stormy sky, a grey-ocean with large bay rocks and a dark forest in the background.

 _Review: "Bleach Stains and Guitar Strings," if this is your favorite idea._


	3. Idea 3: Lunch Tray's and Razor Blades

_~ Lunch trays with a dash of razor blades ~_

Insane: another form or category in society to group others against each other—it's _that_ simple.

You don't have to freak-out in a super-market to be deemed _insane_ —you just have to do something completely unjustified—speak/talk to yourself, attempt suicide over twenty times, tells a therapist you see spirits or hear voices—insanity has no limits. Ha, but human-beings… they do.

 _._

 _._

 _Tray's~ Razor blades_

 _._

 _._

" _Day 105,"_ the male thought.

Sitting in his back-breaking white cot—a hand-me-down from tax-payers. Clad in the same clothes: white pants and t-shirt.

Day after day he does the same thing—lay on the cursive bed, staring at the ceiling waiting for the lunch bell or a nurse to come around to give him a needle. As he lays aimlessly he listens to the _voices—_ not just any type of voice, but his own thoughts that ramble on-and-on about different topics—it's a sure way to keep him awake for more than ten-minutes.

A hundred and five days ago he would put up an unbreakable defense to prove he isn't _crazy_ —he's innocent!

That was before he knew what an insane asylum: looked, smells, feels and taste like.

These bleach-white padded walls are making him believe the jury, his lawyer and the judge were right—maybe he is insane.

Is there something wrong with him?

No—no there can't be. He used to function perfectly-well in society before all this—okay, maybe he didn't speak much but that doesn't make him a nut-case, right? Then again, what does make you crazy?

Placing an arm over his bright-blue eyes he sighs for the shaggy black-locks of hair that tickle his tanned skin—if there was one thing he missed the most since being placed in this shit-hole, it had to be water – he loves water like it's another form of breathing.

Sometimes he'd pretend the ceiling was a watery surface playing with the light on its wavering seal. Even though the swimmer can imagine the water it isn't the same—he wishes to feel the liquid forming to his every curve. It still wouldn't be the same if he were to have the best imagination in the world—he _needs_ to feel _real_ water.

Suddenly a buzz comes from the white-metal door, instantly he looks over with his deep-blue eyes to see a nurse dressed in a white pair of scrubs. He greets her—it's too much effort—just watching as she walks into the room cheerfully.

"Good-morning!" the nurses greets with a smile—the male grunts as a response. At first he thought the medicine-hat woman was popping her patient's _happy-pills_ when the camera's weren't looking—it made sense in more than one way. "Did you sleep well?" she giggles while rolling in a cart.

His dark-hues of blue look over to the wheeling drugs—the trays upon trays of different pills, plastic dishes the preppy-nurse would hand over on a daily basis, and the large water machine that's half empty by the time she gets to his cell.

The nurse sighs for her patients silence—he hasn't said one word to her in months and it's unsettling. How's he supposed to get better if he won't communicate with the people who're supposed to help?

"You should be excited!" the nurse exclaims with a bright demeanor—he doesn't give her a second glance.

"They've released a patient from isolation today," the nurse continues with her hands fiddling with his medication.

He couldn't care any less for the psycho who's been released from isolation—aka: the straight jacket—if anything he's wondering what kind of sick fuck got placed in the suit. Since arriving the quiet inmate has only seen two people thrown into a straight-jacket—it wasn't a pretty sight.

The first person was a young boy—he was being picked on by the other nut-cases and snapped finally. He only remembers seeing the younger male leaping over a table with a spoon-end in hand, knocking his bully to the ground with a crazed look in his eye as he stabbed the other patient with the sharp plastic-edge.

Nut-case number two—he was an elderly man—placed in here for hearing voices and prostitutes for _the lord_. He landed in a hugging-jacket when he started talking to the cooks in the kitchen—calling them: whores, demons and preaching that _God_ was telling him to kill every one of them.

Thanks to that _freak_ , the whole ward went into some-kind-of-lock-down. Patients were ordered back to their rooms, guards on watch, staff went home and nurses provided powder-meals. All because one nutty Jesus-freak with an extra dosage of psychotic went off the rails.

"Maybe you'll become friends,"—not happening. He refuses to make friends with loonies—he doesn't belong here—it's only a matter of time till his lawyer brings his case back to court and proves to the judge _he's_ innocent.

He's no murderer.

Taking the pills in the container from the unknown-nurse, he tips it back and the tablets fall onto his tongue like candy, which he quickly chases away with a gulp of water. There's a slight after-taste as he opens his mouth to the woman—she looks inside to see nothing is left—just in case he tried to fool her.

"Alright," she calls out as she wheels the cart to the door—her eyes contact with the guard outside before she nods. "He can go for breakfast now," the nurse tells the mute muscular guard.

 _._

 _._

 _Tray's~ Razor Blades_

 _._

 _._

Silently he creeps into the cafeteria—not wanting attention from the other patients—even though he's still preferably new to the hospital, he knows that being noticed only makes trouble.

He steps into the silent line of patients, grabbing a tray from the lunch-lady with a sour-face and massive mole on her cheek as the hair-net barely covers her greying hairs. Thankfully he's never found a hair in his food—or so he hopes.

As the line moves the ladies behind the counter slop the usual breakfast onto their trays: toast, scrambled eggs (optional), milk or orange juice (depends on whether the women like you), one sausage, bowl of rice (optional) or oatmeal (optional).

Once his tray's filled with different food—mostly: eggs and rice—he makes his way to his usual table. In the back of the cafeteria where no one bothers to look or walk.

It was the easiest place to sit and avoid others, but he stops once he see's someone sitting there—back towards him as they causally sit on the bench.

His mind races with words he would like to say to this… this _new-comer_. It's on the lines of cursing, insults and drowning the person—he tenses for the sudden shock of rage; before coming here, he wouldn't get this angry _so_ quickly, especially over something this minor.

It's the insane asylum—insanity is quite contagious it seems.

Groaning he walks over to the table, sits down across from the person and stares at the individual. Bright maroon hair—long and flat from the institutions cheap donations—her lips are bloody and cracked—eyes of red dull as she blankly looks down at the oatmeal in her bowl. In short the _new-comer_ looks like shit.

The male peers at her baggy white shirt that dangles slightly off her shoulder—she seems familiar, but he couldn't put a finger on it—should he care?

Of course he doesn't give a shit—then he notices that she hasn't touched her food, even as he begins to eat his breakfast—her eyes only stare at the oatmeal as her fingers grasp the spoon; it's like she doesn't know how to eat anymore. Which isn't something _he's_ ready to deal with—if the woman doesn't start eating the nurses and guards will take note, such notes will cause them to walk over—dragging everyone's attention to the table—and asking: if she needs help or wants someone to feed her.

It's small, indeed, but he doesn't want to take the risk—someone like him would be targeted within a glance.

"You should eat," he bothers to tell the strange woman as her fingers flicker on the plastic spoon—it's more of a twitch. "The nurses will notice and force you—"

The male swallows his words when the woman's cracked lips part as if she was going to say something. Listening closely he hears the crack of my tongue but, no words come out, which is unsettling to the male.

"What were you going to say?" he questions softly; her lips close and her dull eyes return to the oatmeal—whatever she was going to tell him had vanished. When the gut-wrenching feeling of being watched creeps up his skin, he looks over to the guard and nurse on duty—both were staring at his table, directly at the woman before him. They must've taken notice.

"You've got to eat," he sighs; reaching over the table he grabs her hand—it's cold like ice but soft like feathers. "Here," he whispers while helping the crimson-woman scope oatmeal onto the plastic utensil. "Open your mouth," moving the spoon to her cracked lips the sticky-syrup from the oatmeal glosses her flesh.

Due to the closeness he could see the dark-red stains under her eyes—the torture within her soul and body. She is a pain-filled beauty.

"Inmate!" the guard snaps; he's suddenly thrown back and the plastic spoon breaks against the wall. "No touching others," the guard spits.

The male's eyes lock with the guard before looking over to see a nurse by the woman's side—he could tell the red-head was breaking by the presence of authority. "Get up," the guard orders and the blue-eyed patient obeys.

"You have to eat something," the nurse whispers to the beauty. "You're weak from the isolation room."

The male patient freezes for the news— _this_ was the person released from isolation… _today?_ From his point-of-view she didn't look insane or murderous; just malnourished and weak.

Keeping his eyes on the woman he eats his food. She doesn't seem to be listening to the kind-nurse who's constantly trying to feed her oatmeal—but for the nurses presence the table is awkward. Not because of the woman doing her job, but the other patients staring at the red-head with smug expressions and giddy behavior. They weren't going to calm down anytime soon either since the guard was growing impatient—probably because he wasn't getting the attention he craved from the nurse by the newcomers side.

"Are you _that_ fucked up, crazy?" the blue-eyed male flinches for the guard's words—the woman doesn't budge.

"Do ya' hear me _freak!_ "—the guard slams his palms against the table, making it vibrate and the woman's oatmeal to shake. "Look at me when I'm talking to you!"—she does but with dead eyes.

The brute male is silent for the blackness in her eyes, the death lingering within her crimson hues and numbness from the insanity. _'She's definitely pissed, asshole,'_ the male patients thoughts chirp from his bowl of rice.

The red-head stands from the bench and wipes her body towards the exit before slowly leaving without saying a word. Such actions only create curiosity within the blue-eyed male on the other side of the table.


End file.
